


Phony Batmania has bitten the dust.

by BunnyJess



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Hood: Lost Days, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, BAMF Stephanie Brown, Brief mentions of murder, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, I can't write songs, Meditation, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne, Protective Stephanie Brown, Punk Rock, Swearing, Temporary Character Death, but I can wrie Jay writing songs, dramatic Jason given control of song titles, jason is a songwriter, no songwriting in this, obvs it is a jay fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:26:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23158507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnyJess/pseuds/BunnyJess
Summary: The only time he’d ever truly gotten his mind blank was when Bucky had been teaching him sharp shooting. Every time since then, when he’s got his rifle aimed at his target his mind reaches back to the ex-Russian spy’s lessons and goes blank. Jason hadn’t been able to achieve it any other time. No matter how much he’d tried. Jason practices the guitar for two hours every day. A weird calm falls over him in those two hours. His anger, the acidic fiery rage that’s been burning through him since he emerged from those bubbling green waters stills. It retreats into its own pit within his grey matter. For the first time in three years his mind feels like his own.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 119





	Phony Batmania has bitten the dust.

**Author's Note:**

> IDK where this idea came from but it wouldn't leave me alone!!!
> 
> Anyway; I just love punk music in all its forms and think Jay would have been a fan coming from NJ where there is a massive American Punk scene.
> 
> Yes the title is ripped from a Clash song; no I don't care how cheesy that is.

When he picks up a guitar for the first time since he crawled his way out of the grave Jason isn’t expecting to remember much. He’s expecting frustration. That same frustration that happened when Bruce first gifted him his Fender, only heightened thanks to the increase in his emotions and lack of control over them due to the Lazarus Pit. Instead, just like with fighting, it’s as if his hands remember how to play. A beautifully heart-breaking melody filling the room. Tears unexpectedly making their way how his cheeks, something he only notices once he stops playing.

Ducra instilled in him the benefits of meditation but he’d never been one for sitting still. For letting his mind go blank while his body had nothing to do. The only time he’d ever truly gotten his mind blank was when Bucky had been teaching him sharp shooting. Every time since then, when he’s got his rifle aimed at his target his mind reaches back to the ex-Russian spy’s lessons and goes blank. Jason hadn’t been able to achieve it any other time. No matter how much he’d tried. Jason practices the guitar for two hours every day. A weird calm falls over him in those two hours. His anger, the acidic fiery rage that’s been burning through him since he emerged from those bubbling green waters stills. It retreats into its own pit within his grey matter. For the first time in three years his mind feels like his own.

It’s clear when Jason walks into his current home in Glasgow, Scotland, and finds Talia sat at the table that the woman is disappointed in him. He’s not killed his last three trainers, instead compiling the evidence of their crimes and dropping them off at the least corrupt authorities he can. Luckily for him, most of them had been on international wanted lists so they’d mainly been dumped at embassy’s that would prosecute. She’d come down on him like a ton of bricks in Berlin when he’d killed his hand-to-hand instructor. Now, it would appear she’s unhappy with his refusal to kill.

He huffs a sigh, every bit as petulant and long suffering as he can manage and falls into the chair opposite the Al Ghul. She surprises him when she produces a stack of blank USBs and tells him she’s set him up recording equipment in the spare room. She’d been intending to drop by with a new training schedule the day before and heard him playing. His deep, gravelly voice woven into the melody he was strumming had managed to unsettle even the most controlled person he knew in his second life. It was weirdly touching, to have her push him into something non-violent that was helping him more than a potential crusade in Gotham ever could. With a ruffle to his white and black hair she leaves just as quickly as she’d arrived. His mind still reeling from her approval.

For a month straight Jason records. He teaches himself bass, keyboard, and even manages to do okay on the drum kit Talia had dropped off. His magic touch for instruments making it easy for him to learn from books and videos. Every song is haunting in some way. The bass line pulling you into a soothing dreamlike state, almost hypnotic in its lure. Lyrics that can be seen as metaphors reflecting what had actually happened to him. His baritone adding a depth to the notes he plucks out on his rhythm guitar. By the time the month ends he’s got enough songs to fill three commercial albums. Some a full out punk and rock you’d thrash around to, his New Jersey background peaking its way through, while others are thrillers you’d wave a lighter for. Each one sounds different, his voice linking them and weaving a story more heart-breaking than reality.

Unsure what to do with the songs he decides he needs to move somewhere more eclectic, more in line with his own taste in music and lifestyle. Packing up his equipment into a van and driving seven hours to Camden Town to start playing live. With his recordings in hand, and a few copies burnt to CDs, he gets a handful of gigs in the underground scene.

While sat in his Camden flat, the market bustling outside his window and the mixed flavours of different cuisines floating through, Jason had to decide. He could go on stage as himself, face bare and name out there; or, he could adopt a persona to hide behind. In the end it’s an easy enough decision to make. With an oversized red hoody thrown on top of a cheap t-shirt and black jeans, the hood pulled far enough down to shadow his face, he elects to remain anonymous.

As the crowds grow, along with the places he performs and the bands he opens for, the name Red Hood ends up applied to him. A bittersweet sense of reclamation for a boy born in Gotham, killed in Ethiopia, and a man finding himself in London. When a record company approach him around a contract he agrees, only if he can keep his persona. His identity is never to be revealed. It’s a long slog for three years before his debut album hits the airwaves. An insistence of doing it all his own way and proving himself live before any record is produced professionally, even if Talia doesn’t always understand. Magazines and radio stations like Kerrang! advertising his music and widening its audience.

The first tour ends up being a little bit crazy. During his time in Camden he’d made a small group of friends, friends who were willing to be his live band as they’d get the same level of protection to their personal lives as he did. With his friends in tow they tour the UK with Gnarwolves. Each night feeling like he gets more of the Robin magic that Joker had beaten out of him back. Every time the crowd sing his lyrics back to him, every time they can’t stop moving or light up the venue, he feels that same little bit of light flow into him.

It’s unexpected when, after three solo tours around the UK and Europe in small venues that reach capacity as soon as the tickets go on sale, he gets a call from Talia with a request from Papa Roach’s manager. She’d stepped in as his manager when he’d started gaining support. Unwilling to have his talent squandered or used. The band want him to open for them on their US tour. He jumps at the chance, not expecting the jump it’d bring to his career.

With two albums under his belt, and a massive international fan base, it’s a wonder Jason has his identity intact. For the times he must appear in person for an interview he has a special mask made. It covers the lower half of his face, angular plastic that makes him featureless. Attached at the top is a black domino, a small ‘fuck you’ to the life he’d once treasured but had been forgotten by. The man had considered performing in it; however, it was stuffy and caused his voice to distort. Changing the sound too much for him to consider it. Instead he pulls up his hood and slips the mask off. The safety provided by the fabric and its dark interior helping his mind to slip into the space once reserved for sharp shooting.

There is an unexpected calm in the life he now lives. A flat in Camden, shows most nights, recording most days when he just can’t get the song out of his head. It’s a happiness, a quiet, he never thought he’d get or deserved. Talia stops by regularly, her son and his younger brother in tow, to hear his latest song or just for a cup of tea. Nights he’s off he spends in the West End or hunting out small productions and literary readings. His anonymity providing him with the ability to walk the streets of the city that considers Red Hood theirs without issue. A smile tugging at his lips when he spots someone in a piece of his merchandise or singing his music.

It’s a life so completely different to the one he’d been expecting to live. Violence only happens to others. The news portraying all the supposed good the Justice League is accomplishing. It’s quiet without the nightlife. He still sleeps in until noon, still easily catches the clock as it hits four in the morning, still slogs through the nights where he just wants to sleep from the bone deep exhaustion pulling him down but continuing on. This time, it isn’t saving people in the literal sense, it’s his words connecting to them and providing them the strength to survive another day. When he finishes his first solo tour of the US and Canada, fans thanking him after each show for his music being there when no one else was, that he roughly calculates he’s saved more people after picking up the guitar again than he ever did dressed like a traffic light. It sparks a new song idea that he performs for Talia twenty-four hours later. Traffic Light Suicide becoming an instant hit with his fans as they make inferences to an attempted suicide on his part, the truth far grander than they could ever imagine.

The Red Hood’s fame blows up. His New Jersey origins the only part of his identity that gets leaked. Well, less leaked and more his accent gives him away when he talks on stage. The thick drawl of Gotham’s Crime Alley never quite leaving him; even when he’d been forced into the city’s high society. It only softening around words he’s picked up in the years of living in London and having a mother from the Middle East. It’s a small confirmation on his social media, his own excitement at getting to open for his home state heroes of My Chemical Romance that confirms it all. An international tour of true New Jersey talent, even when his London fans protest as he is theirs and theirs alone. A fact he doesn’t deny either as he’s as much a London boy as he is a NJ kid. It’s also what leads to the family he’d been brutally torn away from discovering his resurrection.

There is a charity gala in Gotham for the women and children shelters littered throughout. They approach Talia who reluctantly takes the offer to Jason. They’ve grown closer since he stopped his training and focussed on his natural talent, forming a mother-son relationship like the one he’d always wished for with Catherine. They have never booked a show in Gotham, something not uncommon for the city as their penchant for supervillain attacks is well known the world over. This is different though. This is for the shelters that would have saved him as a kid if Catherine had had the courage to leave Willis. Her health then declining too much to do so once Jason was old enough to beg her to make it so. In the end it’s an easy decision to make.

The gala itself is being held in a renovated theatre, hosted by the Kane family. Jason knows it’s a risk, his once-Aunt and her dad being the hosts opens him up to being revealed. However, being known as someone to never be seen without his mask if not performing, even after his shows, helps hide him. Making him stand out in the crowd while also shutting him off from the people who’d once mocked him. They’d wanted to appeal to the teens they’d invited from the shelters and so Red Hood would be performing before the classical band played out the rest of the night. His set-up shoved to the front of the stage to make room for the orchestra.

It’s warmer than Jason remembers a gala being. The stuffy elites shoved into a room. Alcohol and wasted words filling the spaces in their souls. Each pretending to care as the teens and women there by special invite force them to acknowledge the cause. It isn’t the mask over his face that’s making him feel warmer, over the years as Red Hood he’s gotten used to wearing the thing. It’s the fact he can hear Bruce and Dick laughing, has seen ~~replacement~~ Tim wandering around with the blonde Batgirl. It was his pulse racing as he saw Barbara in her chair for the first time; both changed by the same psychopath. None of them seeming bothered by the missing boy-turned-man who would have been standing at their side if not for a beast with an addiction to grease paint and grievous bodily harm.

Getting back to his dressing room is the first breath of fresh air he’s had all evening. His appearance publicised so his mingling with the crowds expected. He doesn’t dare to take his mask off until his hood is in place. Friends watching warily as they understand this city broke their friend until his adoptive mother got him out.

Lights dimmed. A single red spotlight falling on the mic stand. A wave of shouting from the group of younger people crowding around the stage.

A spin on a heel, Dr Martins boots never catching. Hood kept in place. A slow drawl that starts one of his earliest songs.

_Forehand, backhand, like it fucking matters._

Voice filling every inch of space. The gritty baritone the only sound.

_Forehand, backhand, magic into tatters._

A countdown starts. The red light flashing with every tick.

_Forehand, backhand, did you ever see me?_

Lights exploding across the set. Each member of the band starting up on time. Bass guitar twisting up with the drums to create a pounding beat that feels like a punch to the gut. Rhythm guitar the final blow.

The crowd that know of him throw themselves into his songs. They shout every line back at him. An ambiance of fake politeness devolving into the grit of a punk rock show. His voice feeling chock full of emotion as he sings these words to the city that tried to break him.

Where old women clutch their pearls, younger women clutch their hearts. Every single one of them finding a lyric or song that connects with the situation they’d come from. When Red Hood drops to his knees and sings only to them; a song about his own mother, a woman who picked him up and whisked him to safety; they pull their teenaged children into their arms. All of them understanding the pain of nearly losing the baby in their arms as Lethal Love tears itself from his own heart. Memories of Talia’s soft smile and sharp defence, warming touches and lethality wrapped in tender hands; a bright spark in memories once tainted green. All of them crying as one of his softest ballads builds their strength in having made the right choice for their family.

The set list is meant to be eight songs long. Rules set out by the planners so the exorbitant fee the orchestra cost isn’t squandered. Talia had chuckled at her son’s smirk when she’d told him. During his first life he might have lived by most of the rules; in his best life they’d become more like guidelines. Shows spilling out onto the street where he makes sure to meet every fan, never accepting people trying to push him from those that had taken him into their hearts. It eventually ends at twelve with the Kane family shutting the party planner down when they’d tried to cut Jason off. The military family more concerned with their recipients having a good night than the people who’ll forget about it all before the next gala.

“Thanks for a bloody good night. I know how hard it can be to trust someone called Red Hood in this city. I’m doing a show in two days in Monarch House in the Alley, if you’re here on a special invite that’s also your ticket to get in. See you guys there.” Jason didn’t usually do a closing speech. His final song of most sets, Traffic Light Suicide, usually ending once he’d vacated the stage. However, the Gothamite that would always be burrowed deep into his heart like a parasite knew he’d not be able to do the same here.

Talia had clipped him around the back of the head when he’d told her where he wanted to do a follow-up show. It all being one big up yours to his old life as the venue stood opposite the theatre that spawned it all. It felt like his own brand of justice. His last small show before his first ever headlining arena tour back in Europe being in the city he’d flown away from.

As Jason left the stage, he didn’t notice the looks being shared by the Wayne family, or their harsh whispers as they tried to deduce who had been under the hood. Bruce had heard of the musician from Kate’s excited rambling when she’d booked him, remembering her saying it would be his first Gotham appearance. A New Jersey native with songs that felt torn from his heart and soul, the sound differing between albums but always maintaining that gritty determination of his earliest work. Her joining their crusade coming after Jason had left it, the references flying over her head.

Every other member of Bruce’s family had caught the references. The thinly veiled apathy towards them to the neon, flashing signs of what would appear fantastical to anyone outside their group. Hell, they’d even ended up grabbing each other’s hands when Red Hood started his last song. The green, yellow, red lights playing across his form as if they’d exploded out from within but never highlighting what was under the hood.

Further investigation was needed. Barbara complaining loudly when she discovered that all his paycheques were made out to a subsidiary of the Angel Fox corporation based out of London. She’d dug into the rumours of his life and identity, not expecting it to be as difficult as it was to find the man behind the mask. His accent clearly placed him as someone born in Gotham’s poorest areas, yet everything else in his life pointed towards London. With Tim backing her up, his hidden cameras never getting a clear shot under the hood, the family had politely left. Their request to meet the musician shut down as they were informed, he’d already left the building.

Two days later Jason left his hotel, sneaking out amongst the businessmen. A quick pit stop at one of Talia’s hidden safe houses to change and he’s blending into the people milling around the Alley. The sights and smells of his old stomping grounds providing him with ample inspiration for new music. That humid stench of human nature, the fetid air trying to choke him worse than smoke.

No one casts him a second look. Torn jeans. Worn trainers. Black bomber jacket. It all added into his image. A picture-perfect description of ‘do not fuck with me’, especially when added in with the attitude he’d never lost. An attitude these streets cultivated and honed into a deadly weapon. An apex predator amongst the desolate and damned.

Outside Monarch House he can see the crowd of people lining up already. Desperate to be at the very front and as close to him as possible. A concept that still astounds him. That people clamour to be that close to him, spend their hard-earned money on watching him piss about a stage, connect with the music that had saved him from his own acidic spiral. Jason also spots the handful of Talia’s people she’s dotted throughout the buildings security to protect his fans. Their ‘relaxed’ body language giving them away to an eye that grew up amongst them.

Strolling past he feels his heart stop. Sitting with the queue as if it’s not a coincidence are Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown. The woman ignoring her boyfriend to chat animatedly with a group of similar aged people in front of her, his t-shirt stretched across her form. It’s clear to Jason that she’s a fan, that the Wayne’s probably heard his set two days ago and are using her as an in. The tickets had gone on sale the morning after the gala, selling out rapidly as Gotham’s Red Hood fans clamoured to get them.

Revelation is inevitable.

Resurrection never guaranteed.

Jason hums to himself as he flashes a workers pass at the back door and slips inside. He makes a note of the two sentences that started bouncing around his head like two annoying trapeze artists since spotting two birds in the queue. They’re something he can work with, tweak over his tour before he heads back to his little Camden flat.

With his ability to blend in no one expects him to already be in the venue. His bands appearance giving him the opportunity to slip inside the dressing room and change into his gear. A scream filtering through the poorly soundproofed walls as he starts his sound check. The laugh hearty as he hears them singing along, just as they’ll be doing that night. He’s relaxed in a place he’d never thought he could be. Their love reminding him of all the other shows he’s done around the globe, this one just feeling a little more like when he plays Camden’s Roundhouse than any other venue.

Always one to be petty and mess up people’s plans, just as he did with Ra’s when he started his whole career change, Jason pulls on his composite mask and goes to meet those already queuing. It’s not as many people as would normally be waiting, only those used to the Alley and East End willing to wait in such a place. Still, their reactions when he steps out the front door reminds him why he’d decided to do this show.

There is a rush forwards. Everyone having been respectful of their place in line as they meet him and filter back to their places. Cameras clicking. Art signed or handed over to him in thanks. Multiple pieces detailing his love of literature or lyrics that resonated. There are even a couple of fans who shyly hand over a knitted red hoody, the standout lyrics to Broken Fingers, Broken Faces weaved into the front. He pulls his signature hoody off straight away, the mask staying in place, and pulls the soft jumper on. The two fans blushing as he gushed about its softness. Finally admitting they’d used a wool commonly used for baby items. He asks them how they learnt and rediscovers the magic of the Alley.

“Oh, a group of old women on our block set up a knitting circle for those of us who had nowhere to hang out, the youth centres being two bus rides away an’ all.” The one who’d handed him the jumper states. Her eyes fierce in a way that reminds him of his own defence of the languages group his own tenement had set up to amuse the kids they were babysitting.

“I had something similar for different languages when I was a kid. At least yours produces something so useful.” He tells them before turning to the security guard standing just behind him. A few whispered words and the woman disappears.

When the woman comes back, she’s got one of Jason’s spare red sweatshirts in her hands. Jason takes great delight in surprising both knitters as he hands them each a hoody. His smile getting bigger as he watches them pull them on and snuggle into the thick fabric. No doubt a piece of their new regular wardrobes.

As they walk back to their spot in line, photos of Jason with his arms thrown around their shoulders and wearing their jumper as their new phone backgrounds, Stephanie drags a reluctant Tim forwards. His ears are tinted pink with embarrassment at the actions of Batgirl. Her excitement flooding through any professional barriers the family had been hoping to maintain. Unable to resist, Jason pulls her into his side and starts nattering away. The unsettled look of Tim amusing him too much to care.

“Hood,” the blonde babbles, “your music is so relatable. My boyfriend doesn’t get it, but he’s never lived lives like this.”

“Ivory tower type?” Jason asks, thankful for the mask that muffles the voice Tim would no doubt recognise from his time stalking Batman and Robin II.

Stephanie throws her head back, laughing bright enough it feels like the sun shines that little bit stronger in such a grungy place. “Right in one.” She continues talking his ear off. Jason’s attention is diverted to mostly towards Tim though. He’s still able to catch what Stephanie is saying, his job demanding he’s good with people and making them feel heard, he just allows his mind to also float to the man who’d replaced him in a life he no longer missed.

Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe the disaster of a human being the musician is watching. He’s dressed in clothing that looks like it was stolen from Superboy and Dick’s wardrobes. The items all far too large for his smaller frame, something Talia has never allowed Jason to indulge in due to the inherent dangers of such free fabric. His hair is to his shoulders and he looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in months, although Jason knows he’ll be carrying the dense muscle that all the family has. He also looks far too pale, another side effect of the nightlife. All in all, Jason can concede that the kid is a good fit for the family. Better than he ever was. He fits with his new family much better than he ever did with the Wayne’s. The Al Ghul’s might be very old school but Talia accepted everything odd about him, the things he’d never be able to change like his accent and behavioural ticks that are hangovers from his time on the streets, and loves him because of who he is not who he could be if he fit a specific mould.

Eventually Jason has to say goodbye to his fans. It’s going to start getting busier and if he stays outside, he’ll never get the show to start on time. Once he’s backstage he finds Talia sitting in a rickety chair chatting with his found family. They all get on, it’s just a weird sight to see. Such a deadly assassin animatedly, for her, talking about the latest music news. There are rumours that Red Hood is going to be nominated for a few mainstream awards and none of them really know how to feel about that. Jason doesn’t want the publicity that’ll come with it, on the other hand it’ll help his album sales and provide his band with the recognition they deserve from the wider music community.

As far as shows go, his first proper Gotham gig goes off without a hitch. Probably due to the rumours Jason has no doubt have been spread amongst the Rogues gallery about Lazarus being in town, Talia’s secret identity. Lazarus is known amongst the underworld as being one of the best of the best, just behind only Lady Shiva and Deathstroke. They’re also known for being cruel and fiercely protective of their family, family that is in town and are attending the Red Hood’s show. He plays a mixture of his older songs, a handful of his newer ones thrown in, purely because more of them were written about his time in the city. Not that the crowd know that.

The performance starts like any other. A ticking sound. Flashing red lights. An explosion of music. Only this time, he starts off with Traffic Light Suicide. His set list differs nearly every night anyway, a fear of his fans seeing the same set twice if they’ve come to more than one show having always guided him. Tonight, there is an additional change, his normal red hoody still not back in place as he wears the knitted one from earlier in the day, a simple thank you to his fans. Falling From Heaven gets every phone light or lighter held high in the air, the lilting melody moving the crowd in a gentle sway. His baritone voice weaving words about the time in heaven that the pit had pulled out of his soul. Catherine’s red hair bright in the eternal good weather; swinging through clouds and feeling free. Every moment his soul had remembered immortalised in lyric format.

The worst song to play isn’t any of the ones people would expect. It’s not the one he’s mentioned in interviews. No, for this city. His birth city. It is Guilty In The Twilight, one of the few songs he has with a misleading title. In four minutes thirty-eight seconds Jason tells his fans a story. A story of a boy who’d found hope in desolation, who’d been built up by this god amongst mortals. The boy feeling guilty every minute he spent with the god until the day he finally paid his penance. The closing few lines revealing that the god was a mere man built up into his status by those around him.

Red Hood and his band slip off the stage for a quick drink. As they go Jason catches sight of Tim standing next to Stephanie, once again looking like opposites. For every ounce of joy emanating from her, analysis is coming from him. He’s clearly seeing the songs for what they are, what they really are. A reflection of everything life has thrown at Jason, tried to destroy him with, everything he’s stubbornly survived. In an instant he makes a decision, changing out the last song of the night. All the set-up is the same for the new song, otherwise he’d never dream of making such a late change, so all they have to do now is use it to close the show.

Five songs later and Jason plucks the opening cords for the last song. No More Violent Children nearly blows him away with the strength and conviction the crowd sings the lyrics back at him with. It’s a song his fans know he rarely plays. The lyrics having been written when he’d heard the news of Stephanie’s abduction and torture, Talia confirming to him that she wasn’t dead but was in hiding from the Bats. The whole song a piece of pure rage, a level of rage he hadn’t felt in years at that point. Lyrics calling out anyone who dares to put children in the firing line. Parents and heroes being called out just as much as dictators and villains.

Red Hood disappears from the stage before the song has finished playing out. A sign of what happens to children forced into violence, how they’re forgotten before the news bulletins have even finished. A disguised fuck you to how Jason viewed the Bats behaviours after the loss of Stephanie. Talia’s sources confirming that nothing changed with him, she’d not even gotten a memorial like he had. Tim back in the colours almost instantly.

Backstage there is an unnerving quiet, made all the worse by the fact Talia isn’t in the dressing room where she’d promised to be. His mother knew how emotionally draining the show was going to be. It had the potential to be worse than the gala. These were his people; the people he’d grown up surrounded by except for the couple of years he was with Bruce and the first two years he was with Talia. Wealth and its extravagant displays had never sat right with him. How people could drip themselves in silks and stones considered precious when there are people out there dying of starvation, how they can happily degrade a server who might be about to lose the roof over their head, how they can stand by and do nothing. Jason had had regular shouting matches with Ra’s when the man had tried to use his wealth and position to think himself better than his own daughter because she’d taken him in. His ‘breeding’ not up to par for an associate of the Demon. If Talia hadn’t gone against the man, forcing him to give in or risk losing his heir in her other son, then he’d have killed Jason; of that the man is sure. So, there is no reason for her to not be where she said she’d be. Unless Damian had tried to escape his sitters back in London; he’d always prioritise his little brother over himself and would always expect Talia to do the same. However, she’d have at least left a note.

Uneasiness grows into full on anxiety, an attack close at hand, as he changes at the safe house. Everything is where he’d left it, not even the change of clothes Talia would have left there earlier in the day for herself present. If she’d run off to Damian she’d have stopped by if it wasn’t safe to leave a note in the dressing room. It wasn’t their first time dealing with the little brat deciding he wanted to liberate the animals in London Zoo; or something equally stupid but well meaning.

The panic attack holds off until Jason’s shut the suite door behind him. As soon as the lock clicks into place and he’s walked into the main room he sees what the problem is. Standing ~~looming~~ over his mother is Batman, his gaggle of sidekicks standing just behind him. To give Talia credit, she’s seated on the sofa as if her ex isn’t trying to intimidate her. She’s even got Jason’s post-show pot of camomile tea infusing on the coffee table. When he sees that black suit so close for the first time since Ethiopia sheer, all-consuming terror floods his veins.

With laughter ringing in his ears and his bones feeling like they’re taking that impact all over again Jason can’t breathe. His chest flutters, rapid rate proving fruitless in an attempt to calm him enough to flee or fight. He’d been a fighter before his death, now he froze if the right circumstances were in play. Batman standing over his mother locks him up stiffer than rigor mortis.

Everything feels too bright. The lights of the suite being sucked into the black vortex that is the Bat and his Birds. Even the splash of Nightwing’s blue looks neon when Jason’s eyes skim across it. He can feel his fingers and cheeks beginning to tingle, that laughter getting louder.

Quick as a flash Talia is at his side, hand holding out a paper bag. He knows what he’ll smell before he even takes it off her, a drop of her perfume to remind him of home. One of the quickest ways to reset his brain. It’s only after he’s huffed a handful of breaths with the bag, the bag itself doing little biologically outside of just helping him measure his own breathing, does she dare to touch him. A firm hand landing on his bicep to guide him away from the sitting area and to the vacant dining table. He doesn’t see the venomous glare she shoots the Bats as they’d tried to take a step. She would not have them following them and making her son feel crowded.

There is a plan on pulling Jason out of his panic attacks so he doesn’t shut down. A plan that starts with a paper bag and usually ends with him playing an instrument. A plan Talia still enforces, regardless of their audience. She pours him his tea, supporting his hands where they shake around the cup. Updates him on her day and reviews his show, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she heaps extra praise on the song he’d written for her. Next, in a softness never seen by anyone but those closest to her family, Talia wipes her son’s face down with a damp cloth and rests it on the back of his neck. It’s only once all that has been done that she gets him the acoustic guitar they’ve got with them.

Pure memory guides his fingers once again. His brain clamouring for the calm that always comes with playing. For most musicians there is an adrenaline high to be found in playing live, for Jason it’s always resulted in a similarly meditative state he usually gets while playing music. A state they’d destroyed with their unannounced visit.

None of the Bats dare to move as Jason plays. His voice still locked up tight, it’s his fingers and the guitar that fills the void. There is a naked quality to watching such a physically expressive performer playing in such a stilled fashion. The only movement his body manages is leaning to the side to rest against Talia where she stands guarding him from the other occupants.

Only once the panic has dulled back to a less volatile state does he look up. He can feel Bruce’s displeasure at watching him have a silent conversation with his mother, but he doesn’t shift his gaze to the man until he’s ready. Until Talia has confirmed she’s not leaving him alone with them. He’s tired, utterly drained after such a good show and one of his toughest panic attacks in years, a fact he doesn’t hide from his voice. “Why are you here Bruce?” He’s too exhausted to try to read the man, not that he’d get much.

“You’re alive.” There is no awe or shock to the Bat. Just a simple statement of a fact.

Jason takes another sip of tea; the cup having been refilled by Talia during the song. “Yup. Did he hurt you at all Ummi?” He leans into her side, her hand rising to run through his messy hair.

“He has not, a feat considering all the verbal damage he did to me last time we saw one another.” Her voice is soft, unmasked to reassure her son despite the room’s uninvited guests. Jason remembers hearing about their fight last time they’d seen each other. He’d still been with Bruce, the man coming home and ranting to Alfred about what a ‘cold, calculating woman’ she’d turned into. He’d then gotten the full story from Talia, had watched the videos of their interaction in her compound in Mexico and discovered the only person who’d been cold or calculating had been his ex-father.

“It’s not possible. I buried you, I mourned you. I still mourn you.” Jason couldn’t help thinking that if that were true there could have been a flicker of emotion coming from the man. Instead there was still a wall of steel.

Jason scoffed, flexing his fingers as if feeling every splinter of wood and fractured bone. “I know you did, that was one hell of a wake-up I’ll tell you. Any of you had to dig yourselves out of a grave after bashing through the most ridiculous wooden box known to mankind? I can’t recommend it. The catatonic state after, due to lack of oxygen and getting hit by are car, isn’t much fun either.” He didn’t hold back. None of his punches were pulled. If they’d worked out who he was then they would surely have read through his lyrics. They should know how he’d come back.

Nightwing, no Dick as he’d removed the mask, stepped forward. His hand resting on Bruce’s arm as he got a good look at Jason for the first time. He looked like he was on a knifes edge between disbelief and anger. The visible spark of his temper reminding Jason of all the shouting matches he’d once gotten into with the man he was now attempting to comfort. “Why didn’t you come home, Little Wing?”

“I did go home Dickie, just not to you lot. You’d all made it pretty clear that I wasn’t missed or mourned, and Bruce had made it clear before my murder that he wasn’t my father.” He tried to put some form of emotion into his voice. Tried to show the truth of how he really had found a home with Bruce’s ex-fiancée.

Dick growled, rounding on Talia but getting stopped by Jason jumping to his feet in front of her. He might no longer train to actively fight crime, but he still sparred with his family. “What did you do to him?” His once older brother shot over his shoulder, glare burning into Talia and making them both glad Dick didn’t have Superman’s powers.

“She saved me from being locked in my own mind. She saved me by supporting my music and in my decision to give up the life. She loved me from day one, without obligation or condition. My mum has never once told me that she isn’t my mother and doesn’t want to deal with my hormonal bullshit; hell, after she’d legally gotten me an identity and adopted me, she left the League.” Jason is thankful of the number of years between him and the Pit. It’s acidic rage no longer able to control him. “Fuck loads more than Bruce or Batman ever did for me.”

“I shouldn’t have said that to you Son.” Bruce suddenly sounds small. The tiny, almost minuscule, amount of things Talia has done for Jason breaking his iron control.

“No shit, it doesn’t matter now though. You aren’t my old man. You aren’t my family.” Jason knew he needed to land this last blow. To firmly deliver the final nail. He had to, if he wanted a chance to be left alone. “I thought family sold you out and watched you get beaten like Shelia; didn’t save you and flip flopped between being supportive and putting you down like Bruce; encouraged their team of older teens and young adults to exclude you when you have no choice but to be around them, Dick.”

“Talia reminded me that family does everything in their power to help you survive and thrive. It was Catherine going to bed hungry most nights so I wouldn’t or taking all of Willis’ attention, so I’d not get beaten like she did. It is standing up to a man considered the most powerful and dangerous on Earth because you love your child. It is your friend’s parents pulling you into hugs and asking them how you’re doing, taking you into their own families. Family is unconditional love and support. What you guys have…that isn’t a family. It never has been and never will be. It’s a military dictatorship and all any of you can expect from him when you’re gone is a glass case with a plaque.” Jason spoke as if he were giving a public address, delivering the facts as he knew them to be. No emotion as he finally closed the door on his first life.

Talia put her arm around Jason’s shoulders and pulled him into her side. She could feel her inner lioness roaring with pride at his determination and confidence. It takes a certain kind of strength to confront those that have hurt you. A strength she knew he possessed even when he didn’t.

The pair looked at the Bats expectantly. Waiting for their volatile or bland reactions, depending on how deep the musician’s words had cut and therefore how much they had to shut down. As they were waiting Stephanie and Tim slipped in the window, both decked out in their night-time gear. The blonde paled as she saw one of her favourite musicians being cornered by the Bats. She could see the subtle tremble to his hands and how far he was leaning on Talia for support. A fact the others probably hadn’t noticed, except maybe Cassandra. “Hey, I’d say sorry we’re late but if I’d known we were coming to gang up on my favourite musician I’d have stayed home.” She slipped in front of her boss, waving at Red Hood. “Guess this is why you didn’t hang around to sign stuff tonight?”

Jason met the blonde’s gaze, happy to see that she’d taken her cowl off. It felt like her and Talia were the only ones who understood why he had chosen to stay away. He gave a short nod, energy draining as his adrenaline waned.

“Yes, my son noticed I wasn’t backstage and came straight back here. Unfortunately, well,” the deadly woman waved her free hand at her ex.

Stephanie turned on her team. Her anger at all they’d done, including what she could now spot as a manipulation on Tim’s half by taking her to the gig, burning bright enough that she could have attracted a red lantern ring. For the second time in her career as a vigilante Stephanie slapped Bruce, a move he hadn’t been expecting and so caught the blast full force on his cheek. A red handprint blooming across the exposed skin. Tim went to take her arm, but she shook him off, shoving him away from her and pointing at the window they’d entered. Stephanie felt stupid, she’d worked with the Bats long enough that she should have known how they could be; instead she’d gone along with it all without thinking anything of Tim’s sudden interest in a musician he’d ignored up until then.

Just as they reached the window Talia clears her throat, Jason already moving away to the bathroom to show and fall into bed. “If you come near me or mine again, if you try to reveal who he is to anyone, and if you try to stop him from performing anywhere he wants to; just remember that I will ruin you to the point that you’ll beg for death.” She then caught Stephanie’s attention. “My dear, if you ever want out of the life or just to see my son perform again call me.” She winked at the blonde’s confusion. Talia didn’t need your number or for you to have hers, she had enough contacts that she’d find out if Steph needed her. With her parting shot fired, Talia turned on her heel and went to her son’s room.

Jason was sat on the edge of the bed. Head held in his hands as tears flowed and his shoulders heaved with the effort to not spiral into another panic attack. Green filled Talia’s mind, the same green rage that permeated her son bubbling up within her, protective fury unlike anything most people could comprehend. Her son could. She’d watched him slay an entire hoard of assassins sent by her father to steal Damian. The old man never having accounted for her youngest having such a protective older brother. His fury had rained red while his vision was blindingly green, to the point that even Talia had had to look away from them.

Instead of acting on the desires and thoughts screaming at her to hunt and kill every last Bat that had caused her son so much distress; she gracefully folded herself down beside him. Pulling him into her arms she heard him hiccup, sobs falling harder and faster. Her blouse was getting soaked but she daren’t move. He needed this catharsis, both the confrontation and the fall out. Now the pair of them could move on. He could stop looking over his shoulder every time he touched down in the USA. He could lay flowers on his first mother’s grave.

Talia held him throughout the night. Her voice a constant as she sang the lullaby’s her own mother had sung to her. The whole experience reminding her of those first couple of years with her eldest. How she’d hold him while he struggled to sleep through nightmares, Damian in the bassinet beside the bed. Her voice soothing Jason as much now as it had both of her children then. Tomorrow they could start again, could go back to working through all the tools Jason’s multitude of mental health workers had taught him. For tonight, they would just be. Mother and son; grieving for the futures the same city had torn from them, relishing in the comfort the Lady of Gotham had gifted them in return.


End file.
